It Comes Around
by TheColourOfStarlight
Summary: AU. A motif. 1. Roxas placed the paper back on the table. 2. We walked in silence, shrouded in mist. 3. Sora would keep looking until he found him. 4. It was simple, and small. [RoxasxSora]
1. Message in a Coat Pocket

**Inspiration strikes at some of the strangest times, and in the middle of a pretty dense week here at university, my muse threw up all over me. I had the seed of an idea for quite some time—a story cycle with a common phrase—but I lacked the unifying phrase. As I was lying in bed one night, it just flashed in my head like a road sign: it comes around. It flooded out after that, and the next four stories are what resulted.**

**After each story, I'll describe how I came up with it. I find the creative process interesting, and I hope you, Dear Reader, will too.**

**~TheColourOfStarlight**

-o-o-o-

**It Comes Around**

-o-o-o-

_Message in a Coat Pocket_

-o-o-o-

The slip of paper he pulled out of his coat pocket was, despite the wrinkles it had picked up during the day, folded delicately. He tossed it down on the table with his keys, his wallet, and some pocket lint, hung his coat in the hall closet, and slunk in to his kitchen to warm himself dinner.

He stuck the leftovers—macaroni and cheese, this time—into the microwave and watched the little ceramic bowl turn about before a thought bubbled to the surface of his mind: _That paper wasn't in my pocket before_. He couldn't remember if that was right or not, though. True, he didn't have the paper when he left home, but he couldn't remember if he had picked it up somewhere on the way back. A receipt, perhaps, or a reminder he wrote for himself.

He walked back into the front hall and picked up the little sheet of paper. It wasn't very big, the size of a business card maybe, but was rough on the outside. After quickly examining the card for any identifying marks (there weren't any), he opened it. There was a brief message—one sentence, really—inside, scrawled in a slight yet masculine handwriting:

_do you believe in soul mates?_

That was it. It was cute, but something about the sloppy grammar seemed a little sinister. Threatening, even. You do believe in soul mates... _don't you_? Maybe he was reading too much into this. But even if he was, he still didn't have an explanation on the note's exact purpose or how it suddenly appeared in his coat pocket.

Roxas placed the paper back on the table, still pondering his mysterious message. He picked it up again and felt the bumpy texture under his fingers. He glanced down at it with a frown, and felt as if he were on the verge of remembering something important about it… But it was quickly forgotten when the timer for his mac and cheese went off.

-o-o-o-

"Whoever did that is a fucking creep," Xion said. Her opinion was always candid, and Roxas always got a kick out of it, no matter what the circumstances were. She flicked the strands of hair that had begun to fall over her eyes as she cast Roxas a serious, watch-your-back kind of look. "I mean, this person's touching your stuff and invading your privacy. What the hell?"

The hour hand of the clock was fixed somewhere in between where the seven and eight would be. Its face was washed red, and it hung behind the counter innocuously, ticking away the seconds. There were only two customers left beside the trio, and one had just stood to go.

Axel, Roxas's best friend since grade school, had one incredibly long arm slung over the back of the barstool and was scrolling through his messages on the phone in his other hand. Roxas sat to his left, right next to the register, and Xion was behind the counter. She worked there, the out-of-the-way coffee shop The Grind, as a barista. It sat across the road from a sprawling park (though he could never remember the name) and could be summed up tidily as every hipster's dream.

Roxas shrugged. "I mean, I think it's kinda romantic," he began, idly stirring what was left of the coffee in front of him. He had finally made up his mind on the note as it scurried back to the forefront of his attention as he tried to sleep the night before. "The idea that someone is watching out for you…" He couldn't help but smile a little at the thought, no matter how silly it was.

"I dunno," Axel said, turning in his seat to face the blond. "The note never said anything about watching _out_ for you. For all you know, they're just watching you."

"Like a stalker," Xion added from down the counter. "If I'd found that some stranger was putting shit in my pocket," she reached into a front pocket on her apron for emphasis, "I would've freaked."

"But I haven't done anything to warrant a stalker," Roxas said honestly. "I'm not a celebrity or anything." He took one last gulp of his drink and set down the empty mug without flourish.

"How did they get that message into your coat, anyway," Axel asked, who had opened several packets of sugar and poured them onto the counter. He was making shapes out of the tiny crystals; the latest one was a cat's face.

"Hey, I'm gonna have to clean that," Xion scolded. He grunted nonchalantly; she scowled at his indifference but continued wiping things down behind the counter.

"Beats me," Roxas said, answering Axel. "It's not like I leave it lying around all the time. But when I went home, I found it in my pocket like it belonged there. Weird, right?"

He put his hand into his coat, currently draped over the back of his chair, as if spurred on by the memory and felt his fingers brush up against something rough. His heart jumped and his belly flopped, the whole organ workout, and he pulled the message out slowly, both savoring the feeling and stunned at the idea that he might have another note.

"You carry it around with you?" Axel asked. His tone was flavored with a garden variety of astonishment.

"No…" Roxas said with a frown. "This is new." He opened it up—it was same in texture and appearance as the last one—and held it out so the redhead could read along too. It was a little longer this time, though no less cryptic, and was written in the same tight handwriting as before:

_we're born alone we live alone we die alone_

Roxas put the note on the counter as his brows began to furrow. "What does that even mean?" he asked. He thought about it, but nothing clicked, and the harder he thought about it, the less it meant to him. The words swarmed around his head, but didn't make much sense. It was as if all the words had lost their meanings and were just sounds in a cosmic landscape. He gave up and collapsed against the back of his seat.

"What does what mean?" Xion said, walking over and snatching up the message. She read it and dropped it back on the counter, almost with disgust. "I told you, Roxas. Whoever this person is, they're a real creep."

"Where all did you go today?" Axel asked. He had been sitting there, staring down pensively at his sugary feline, but now his eyes were alive with excitement. "And yesterday?" Roxas gave him a puzzled look, so Axel elaborated his theory. "So we can know where this person's at. They have to have access to you somewhere, and it has to be somewhere you went both today _and_ yesterday."

He was answered with pursed lips as Roxas thought back. Where had he gone the last two days? He had been to the library both days, but he had stayed in his car today and dropped the book off (he hadn't needed it anyway) in the drive-through slot. The only places that really overlapped were McDonald's where he worked and the university, and he told them so.

"Okay," Axel said. "That's easy. Just don't go to work one day and class the another. That'll narrow down where your stalker's at. Hell, it might even tell you who your stalker is."

"That's actually a… decent idea," Xion said. "But now I have to ask you to go home, because we're closing." They watched as the last customer walked out, the little bell above the door tinkling as he left. Roxas threw on his coat and walked out into the cold, waving back to the girl behind the counter as he and Axel walked out, now talking about the latest slasher flick.

But he couldn't help but finger the note that was still inside his pocket.

-o-o-o-

Their plan was almost over before it began. His manager, an intimidating man who towered over everyone and watched all with his unblinking eyes, wasn't the easiest man to talk to. He was either busy chewing ice, or chewing someone's ass.

"Yeah, I—I think I have a, uh, fever," Roxas said. He had begun sweating, and he was sure that you could hear fear in his voice. "I can't come in today. No," he shook his head, telling himself that he would not. A gruff answer from the other end of the line. "Okay, yeah. Thanks, I hope I feel better too. Okay. Goodbye."

He didn't think it would work, but it did. And that meant that all he had to do was go to class. Simple enough, and after suffering through classes (a lecture over _Le Chanson de Roland_ and something about the number _e_), he was back sitting in his favorite seat at The Grind with Axel and Xion. Before they knew it, the blank-faced clock on the wall behind them alerted the room that closing time was drawing near.

"Did you get a note this time?" Axel asked. He had a pencil in one hand and was doodling on a napkin. Xion was wiping off tables along the far wall of the small shop, and the last group of patrons was headed out the door, accompanied by the ringing of the door's silver bell.

"I don't think so," Roxas said, but it was more of an open question than an actual statement of any kind. He checked his pockets and found another slip of paper. "Oh," he said with a hint of surprise in his voice, "I guess I did." He opened it, but it was quickly pulled out of his hands by his raven-haired friend. She had walked behind the two at the bar unnoticed and scanned it, before tossing back on the counter. "What did it say?" Roxas asked. He read it.

_it comes around_

"What is that supposed to mean?" Axel said as he read the message over Roxas's shoulder.

"I dunno. I thought you were the creative one," Xion said from across the room. Axel and Xion shared puzzled looks and exchanged theories while Roxas smiled dumbly to himself. For some reason, he found what he had just read to be extremely amusing.

"So it has to be someone at school," he mumbled to himself when the thought finally struck him. Axel nodded in assent. They all said goodnight and Xion closed shop.

-o-o-o-

Roxas was typically a thorough person—he always made sure to dot his _i's_ and cross his _t's_—so when he skipped his Thursday classes, it wasn't because he doubted his own conclusion but rather that he was being his old, meticulous self.

Work was hell because his little white lie wasn't nearly as convincing as he had thought it was. His boss had him on janitorial duty most of the day. Roxas hated it because you never knew what surprising odors you'd discover in the trash. And the same went double for the latrines.

Axel had already downed a cup of coffee before Roxas got to The Grind and was using his astronomy textbook as a cushion for his arms while absorbed in his game of Pokémon. His battered green Gameboy was promptly abandoned, however, when he noticed that Roxas had arrived.

"Did your friend leave you anything today?" he inquired. Roxas suspected that Axel liked this game more than he cared to admit, but Roxas bit his tongue. Roxas waved to Xion and sat down in a huff.

"I doubt it," he said, digging around in his coat pocket. "I mean, I skipped today, so…" but he trailed off as he pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket. Roxas was beginning to wonder how careless he really was during the day. "Son of a gun," he muttered in amazement. This time it read:

_can we meet up? the grind Friday at 6_

"But wait," Axel said in confusion. "I thought you said you didn't go to class. How do have another one?" Roxas shook his head. How the hell would _he_ know the answer?

"Do you think that your stalker knew what you were up to and followed you?" Xion asked. The thought was already beginning to creep into his mind and he was beginning to feel that this whole process was more creepy than romantic after all.

"He couldn't have known," Axel cut in. "We made the plan pretty late yesterday—"

"—At the coffeehouse," Roxas said. "Was it… you?" he turned to Axel. The redhead looked at him with a slight frown.

"You know me, Roxas," he said, "I express my love a little differently." He grabbed Xion as she was passing behind the counter and kissed her squarely on the lips. The squealing girl tried to push back, but the bigger redhead was too strong for her. "Kinda like that," he said as he released the raven-haired girl, a smirk beginning to form.

"You disgusting son of a…" Xion said as she wiped her mouth on a napkin. She shook her head when Roxas shot her a curious look. "It wasn't me," she shook her head. "I'm happily taken."

Roxas nodded his head. The bell over the door tinkled as the last customer walked out, and Axel looked up from his Gameboy to the door to the clock on the wall. "We should start getting here a little earlier," he said sardonically.

"Wait a mi—" he jumped off the stool and ran out after the last patron. He ran out into the cold winter air, but the last patron was already across the street and turning the corner. The last thing Roxas saw was a shock of brown hair. He let out a breath of defeat, and his reentrance at The Grind was clouded with an air of defeat. He slumped down in his seat and let his shoulders hang low. "I could have sworn…"

"What makes you think it was that dude?" asked Axel, looking wide-eyed at the blond and his sudden burst of energy.

Roxas opened his mouth to answer, but it snapped shut a moment later. _Why did he think so?_ He shook his head. "I just…" He scowled internally; he couldn't articulate his reasoning, to himself or his friends. He didn't have a speck of evidence, but somehow he knew. He just did.

"So are you gonna meet this person?" Xion asked as she looked down at the message that had previously lain forgotten on the counter. "Your mystery friend?" It had come quickly, very quickly, but he nodded his head anyway. What else could he do?

-o-o-o-

Six came in a flash of burgers and class work, but his date with the stranger was always at the back of his mind. By the time his shift ended, he had dropped two sandwiches and the manager had given him a stern tongue-lashing that bordered on verbal abuse. But when it was all over, he rushed home (all incidents written off as ancient history) and took a shower. Before he knew it, he was back at The Grind, butterflies doing loop-de-loops in his stomach.

Roxas stood nervously at the bar, Axel at his side. He had put on a blazer over a blue button-up shirt. It was done up all the way but lacked a tie, making him look sexy in a smart kind of way (he hoped). A loose-fitting pair of khakis covered up his chicken legs—a tried-and-true little illusion that his friend Zexion, who also suffered from poultry limbs, had showed him—and a pair of brown loafers completed the ensemble.

"I can't believe you got dressed up for your mystery date." Axel frowned again.

Roxas waved the comment off. "Would you get out of here? They could be here any moment." Axel shrugged and walked over to a little table in the back corner, turning to tell his friend to watch out because if this stranger had a gun, he was on his own.

Roxas went back to his drink, thinking of a few "a best friend would" quotes, and looked up at the empty clock behind the bar. It looked brighter than usual, and read 6:02. Roxas began to wonder when his "mystery date" would show up, and a gentle "hello" came from behind him, making him jump.

Roxas had been right, it was the customer from the night before, and taking a good look at the newcomer, he was struck dumb. Mystery date had turned out to be mystery _man_. Well, man wasn't the best word; he looked about Roxas's age, nineteen, or at least somewhere in the ballpark.

"I'm, uh… Sora," the brunet said nervously, grabbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. He was a thin young man, probably muscular, and was swallowed up in an AC/DC T-shirt. He had a button nose that you could almost call cute.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Roxas asked. Sora nodded and sat in the stool that on any other occasion would have been filled with a reassuring redhead. He swiveled back and forth, looking like an innocent child. Roxas smiled. He could hardly believe that he had been frightened by _this_.

After he ordered, Roxas turned to Sora. "So what was with those notes?"

Sora blushed a little. "Well, I was too nervous to talk to you. You know what I mean? It, well, it scared me shitless (pardon my French). And I didn't know what to say, even when it was just a sentence or two." The order came, a caramel latte, as he was telling his story. He stopped and took a sip. Then he continued, occasionally stirring it with his straw.

"I thought being direct would scare you away. And poetry was boring and, well—everyone uses it! So I opted to be cryptic. It's cool, and it's a pretty good hook, I think. And I guess you did too."

After some more poking and prodding, Roxas learned that he had been spotted at the coffee shop by Sora when he was out (he blushed again) shopping with his mom. He came back the next Saturday and found that Roxas was there again. So he kept coming back. Roxas also learned that the brunet was nineteen—as he had thought—and was a mid-semester transfer student from Michigan.

They had been drinking their drinks in silence. Awkward, but not totally uncomfortable. "So what does 'it comes around' mean?" Roxas asked suddenly.

"I'll let you figure that one out on your own," Sora said with a sly grin. Roxas felt himself roll his eyes and stopped. He rarely got this comfortable with people, even friends he had known for what seemed like forever, and he wasn't sure how he felt about his sudden connection with Sora.

Roxas looked down at his coffee. It was very black. He looked over at the boy again. His long hair drooped over his eyes as he looked up at Roxas and saw that he was watching him. They made eye contact for a brief second and Sora grinned a sheepish grin that alone could have won the hearts of any man, woman, or child.

"Do you believe in soul mates?" the brunet asked quietly. He looked up at Roxas and the blond felt himself blink. He felt as if he had been asked this question before. Recently, even. He answered him as honestly as he could, without really even having to think about it.

"Yeah," Roxas nodded. "I think I do."

-o-o-o-

**1. I was standing in line at the supermarket, thinking about how great it would be if I found a twenty in my pocket that I had forgotten about once upon a time. Of course, I didn't. But that little thought stuck with me, and on my way home, it had mutated from finding some cash to finding a note. I fleshed out the idea and this is what resulted.**


	2. I think my favorite season is autumn

-o-o-o-

**It Comes Around**

-o-o-o-

_I think my favorite season is autumn_

-o-o-o-

Each season of the year is beautiful in some way. Think of which season is your favorite: winter, summer, spring or fall. Think of what your town looks like during that season. What does it feel like? Is there a smell or taste to it?

Now, write an essay describing an outdoor scene during your favorite season of the year.

* * *

"Leaves"

Everyone has a favorite season, and they are chosen for many different reasons. Some people enjoy napping on the beach and having a much-deserved break from school. Others like building snowmen and sledding down frosted hills. Me? I think my favorite season is autumn. The trees begin to change their colors and there's something special in the air. One of my favorite parts of the season, however, is the fog.

The thick pea soup fog is what I really mean. It covers up everything and hides one's real feelings. It truly is a mystical thing that offers a kind of protection. But I guess autumn is my favorite season because—to me—it feels like love. Not the crummy fairy-tale love everyone strives for. That kind of love isn't really _real_. No, fall is a pure, tragic one-sided love.

Can I say what fall feels like? I guess it is cool; summer is on its way out and winter is on its way in. There's the brittle crunch of dirty leaves underfoot and pinecones on the ground. As for the smell? In my mind, it is the smell of almonds. The once-strong scent wafting through the air despite the miserable conditions outside—fog has a way of making everything that it touches disgusting.

The smell of almond and the taste of convenience store chocolate. And heartbreak, too, I guess. That's what Autumn is to me. Not just the season autumn (or _l'automne _if you wanted to say it in a really romantic language), but Autumn, a proper noun. It will always be known to me as Autumn.

That Autumn, and I am talking about The Big One, was an exceptionally foggy one. It was like we were all living in a Scottish moor that year. And the fog was accompanied with a general malaise that hit almost everyone in town.

I waited, like always, by the flagpole in the school's courtyard for him, my friend Sora. It was one of the days during the magnificent fog (so magnificent that day that droplets of rain had began to form), and though I wore a heavy coat, I was still quite miserable outside.

I finally saw him bounding down the steps of the school with his group of friends in tow, though they were nowhere as enthusiastic as he was. They were walking all towards town, and I burned inside with the thought that he had forgotten our plans. I always looked forward to our trip home; it was my favorite part of the school day. He looked back one last time in my direction and, he finally saw me.

"Hey Roxas!" he hollered over to me. People have no reason to yell in the fog, I think. It's unnatural, but that day, it looked good on him. He told his friends a quick goodbye and ran over to me, dark strands of wet hair were already beginning to cling to his forehead. He beamed.

"Are you ready?" I asked him with a similar grin. Sora was one of those people who made you smile whether you liked it or not. "You know it!" he said as he pumped his fist in the air. He was always cheery, and I liked that best about him. He was the sun.

We turned and walked toward our houses, slinging our satchels over our shoulders as we walked. I said nothing on the way, and the crunch of wet leaves was the only thing that accompanied us. With the thick fog between us, I felt really alone. I was still pretty upset that Sora had forgotten.

You see, I was not what you would call popular, so it made me anxious when Sora, who was admired by all, forgot. Our friendship was the bombshell of the social scene that year, and I still felt wary about the whole thing like it was some big joke. After all, our worlds usually didn't collide, and we had almost nothing in common.

I was silent, and Sora must have noticed that something was amiss, because he said to me suddenly, "I didn't forget, y'know." Again, I bit my tongue. "I just couldn't see you through the fog and I thought you'd taken off. I was kinda pissed, but then I saw your hair, of all things, at the pole." He looked at me with a smile, and I could swear that it could cut through the fog. "It comes around, dude. See?" he said. He was always making up quirky sayings likes that, and that one was his latest. I liked it the most.

Again, I was silent. "I got this for you." He flashed a Snickers bar in front of my face. "Well, I guess I found it in the bottom of my locker today. But I know it's still good." He turned and gave me a small shrug as I took his peace offering.

I had been trying to lay off the chocolate (it made me break out pretty bad), but I lit up like a Christmas tree. "Godspeed!" I said jovially as I opened the candy bar. What that was supposed to mean, I have no idea.

Despite all that, I didn't take his apology all that seriously. I sensed that this engagement meant more to me than to him, but I could tell he was truly sorry. And I was not about to reject his conciliatory advances.

The truth is: I loved him.

I loved him not only because he was beautiful, and was he _beautiful_, but because he was different. He wasn't one of the ones who whispered 'Roxas Strife is a pussy' behind my back just because I was smarter than they were. He was different. He was a sportsman—fencing was his game—but intelligent, and sensitive. He was one of those guys that, after you met him, you couldn't say that God didn't give with both hands.

He had bright blues eyes that caught the sun in such a way that they literally sparkled (at least, on days without such thick fog), and his hair was incredibly shiny. In the right light, it would look almost as black as coal, as rich as chocolate, and light as a maple leaf, all at once. It made my insides—for lack of a better word—_tickle_ just to think of it. And he always used the most amazing (almond) shampoo. He was perfect.

But his thoughts on me? I was just a friend, nothing more. He was a regular guy. How could it be any different?

We walked in silence, shrouded in mist. "I was watching the best show just the other day," I was telling him about one of my favorites as we walked down the wet sidewalk. He was tossing his pen up and catching it in his hand, which was quite a challenge since we couldn't see more than three feet in front of us. "You've got to see it sometime. It's basically a drama about…"

"I dunno, Roxas. You know that I'm more of a comedy kinda guy," he interrupted. In all honesty, I _didn't_ know that, but I nodded my head as if I did.

"But I think you'd like it," I tried to tell him, "it's so—"

"Sora?" a voice came from behind. We turned, but we couldn't make out the face immediately. We stopped and the newcomer came closer. "Riku!" Sora said with delight. Riku was another fencer, and he and Sora got along famously. I hoped with all my might that he wouldn't stay.

"Where are you guys going?" he asked. Sora told him that we were headed home and that we always walked each other home, since we lived so close to one another. "That's cool," Riku said, "my girlfriend lives in that direction, so I can walk with you a bit." I'm glad the fog shrouded my face, because it must have been absolutely hideous.

The rest of the walk consisted of them talking about fencing, and how Sora needed to buy a new sabre because he had misplaced his (this was said with a sheepish grin that made my heart flutter up through my mouth and into my brains), and that I, too, should take up fencing.

We reached the path that led up to my front door and Sora and Riku stood there chatting. I walked up to the patio, ignored, but as Sora and his friend walked away, he shouted back to me "I'll watch that show sometime soon. It must be pretty great since you like it so much."

I waved nonchalantly as they left, not really sure if they could see me, but as soon as I reached the safe haven of my living room, I rejoiced. He would watch my favorite show and then we would have something in common. We would talk about it and get to know each other even better. At that point, I was even considering joining fencing.

I never did. And though it was then and there that I made up my mind to love him forever, I didn't. I guess everything was a big joke on me like usual. The sun eventually lost its warmth. My heart was innocent and ached with... something, but that faded with time, of course. That was the last autumn I believed in fairy-tale love.

And that's why, when I walk through the fog lost in thought, I can almost smell almonds. Almost, but not quite. That's why, now and then, I'll go down to the corner store and buy a Snickers bar, though it doesn't quite taste right, and I'll listen to the leaves underneath my shoes as I walk back. The fog is a beautiful, mysterious thing. I guess that is what I've been trying to say, just in a roundabout way. Fall is beautiful, really.

It's too bad that winter comes.

* * *

**Reader 1:**

**FOCUS**: 3 – Apparent point made about a single topic with sufficient awareness of task.

**CONTENT**: 3 – Sufficiently developed content with adequate elaboration or explanation.

**ORGANIZATION**: 2 – Confused or inconsistent arrangement of content with or without attempts at transition.

**STYLE**: 3 – Generic use of a variety of words and sentences that may or may not create writer's voice and tone appropriate to audience.

**CONVENTIONS**: 2 – Limited control of grammar, mechanics, spelling, usage and sentence formation.

**Other comments: Tone ****not appropriate**** for prompt. Verb tenses ****not consistent****. Ideas ****not consistent****.**

-o-o-o-

**Reader 2:**

**FOCUS**: 4 – Sharp, distinct controlling point made about a single topic with evident awareness of task.

**CONTENT**: 4 – Substantial, specific, and/or illustrative content demonstrating strong development and sophisticated ideas.

**ORGANIZATION**: 3 – Functional arrangement of content that sustains a logical order with some evidence of transitions.

**STYLE**: 4 – Precise, illustrative use of a variety of words and sentence structures to create consistent writer's voice and tone appropriate to audience.

**CONVENTIONS**: 4 – Evident control of grammar, mechanics, spelling, usage and sentence formation.

**Other comments: After the winter is always spring.**

-o-o-o-

**2. I was on Facebook the other day, and I read several posts by my high school friends who were particularly unenthused about an upcoming writing test. This idea basically came from that, but it put up a pretty big fight during the writing process. Eventually I decided to just power through and be done with it.**


	3. Thoughts of Red

-o-o-o-

**It Comes Around**

-o-o-o-

_Thoughts of Red_

-o-o-o-

Sora stared at the oil on canvas that hung on the wall. It was an abstract piece by an artist of whom he had never heard before then, but he liked it just as if it had come from the hands of one of the old masters.

It was a dark crimson (_the color of blood_) and depicted the outlines of two large collections of swirls that seemed to twist one way before flaring out in the total opposite. The background of these images was a dabbed mass of oranges and yellows that looked warm and inviting. Soft, even. Beneath the canvas was the title: "It Comes Around."

He sat on the backless bench that sat in the middle of the art gallery, the material of the cushion was soft beneath his thin yet muscular body, and he shuffled his feet aimlessly beneath himself. He smiled as he gazed at the piece of work. Roxas would love this painting, he thought to himself.

(_it comes around it comes around and around and around and around_)

He stood up and almost toppled over. His legs were feeling "like orange jello" as Roxas would say. A lady with brown hair in a large blue blouse looked up at him with concern for the endangered artwork before realizing that it was just a harmless—but reckless, nonetheless, where were his parents?—kid and took her attention away from him as easily as she had given it to him.

"It Comes Around," he kept repeating to himself under his breath. He didn't want to forget it. Roxas would absolutely adore it. He just knew he would, and he had to go and show him because yes, it was that good.

He walked out of the comfort of the heated building and wrapped his trench coat tightly around him, as if it were his only lifeline in the midst of a tempest. The streets were unnervingly empty, and it wasn't just the heavy rain keeping everyone out of sight. News of the "Drainpipe Killer" and his latest victim had scared most of the city's population indoors.

The maniac had bludgeoned a young barista to death (the night before, from the looks of things) and her body was discovered this morning. Police could not find a motive; all of her money, valuables, and personal belongings were still found on her person, according to the paper. Furthermore, the article advised people to stay indoors when possible, and if they had to travel, to travel with a friend or in a cab.

It was too bad about the barista. Sora hadn't told Roxas about it. Xion, for that was her name, had been friends with Roxas, and he would have been devastated. And what was even scarier (to Sora, at least) was that he had talked to her on the day of her death. It was frightening to think about. He probably could have saved her life if he had talked to her a little bit longer. But the corollary, of course, was that if he had stayed a little later, it might have been _his_ skull that was fractured in eight places, and it might have been _him_ with all the broken, shattered bones.

(_but it comes around jesus does it come around hard_)

The air was absolutely frigid, and the rain that fell would have chilled him to the bone if not for his heavy coat. To top it off, the wind had begun blowing sporadically, and the rain fell directly into his face. A desperate pigeon was hopping along the sidewalk, looking for a dry place to stay, he presumed. Besides Sora, it was the only sign of life outside. Outside in the wind and the cold.

Sora didn't know where Roxas was at off the top of his head, and it was times like these that he kicked himself for being so forgetful: his cell phone was probably languishing on his desk at home, overlooked in its innocence. Maybe Axel knew, he hoped quietly to himself. The redhead was the blond's best friend, so if anyone had any idea what he was up to, it had to be him. Sora was almost sure of it. Besides, staying at his place for a while beat wandering around in the rain for who knows how long.

He picked up his pace. The hairs on his neck had begun to stand on end; he could feel them underneath the upturned collar of his coat. He could see the tattered strips of yellow that were left tied to the electric poles and street signs, blaring **POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS**. The free ends of the tape danced jerkily in the middle of the storm. They looked like skeletal arms flailing out, reaching for him.

Sora looked past them and saw they were protecting a tired looking building, whose faded bricks were (_the color of blood o god of blood dripping down the walls_) begin to crumble. The chalk on the folding sign outside, the ones used to entice the average passer-by, had all but washed away. Though from a distance one could still make out the name The Grind.

Axel's apartment was just past this, overlooking Belvedere Park. He began to run. The cold had really begun to dig into his bones (_broken shattered bones blood red_), and he kept having visions of a man in black jumping out at him from the fog and swinging a bent up piece of rusted steel. A man with a crooked, twisted grin.

He was surprised—and a little glad—that he didn't have to go all the way to Axel's place to talk to the redhead. He saw him through the fog, walking back to the complex wrapped in a heavy black coat, and hurried to catch up with him. He couldn't see his face, or any identifying features, but he could tell it was Axel. Who else was nine feet tall and thin as a toothpick?

"Axel?" he asked. The taller man turned with a look of surprise, his red (_red red blood red_) hair poking out from beneath his hood, followed by a toothless grin. It was crooked. He slowed and let the brunet catch up before falling in-stride beside him, gesticulating with his arms as he began to talk as per usual.

"Sora? What're you doing out?" he raised an eyebrow menacingly. "Aren't you afraid that the Drainpipe Killer's gonna getcha?" he ended his sentence with almost too much emphasis. Sora laughed and shook his head.

"No, I'm more than a match for him," he said as he puffed out his chest. Axel rolled his eyes and asked him what was up. "I'm looking for Roxas. Have you seen him around?"

Axel shook his head slowly. A frown had replaced that crooked grin. "No, Sora." He paused. Something was wrong. He slowed to a stop in the pouring rain and looked at Sora once more. Lightning flashed in the sky somewhere in the distance. "I haven't. Are you—you know he…"

But before he could finish his sentence, Sora had pulled open his trench coat and somehow a drainpipe—dented but lacking any visible traces of rust—had appeared in his hand. Confusion flickered over the redhead's eyes before they glazed over with fear. He traced the pipe in his mind and noticed that there was a dried substance (_blood blood o my god blood red red red_) around the male end of the pipe and the fear in his eyes was replaced with utter terror.

"You're the…" But he never got the chance to finish his sentence. The chilled metal collided with warm flesh, and the skin on his temple tore open with an almost imperceptible sound that was reminiscent of tearing a wet piece of paper. Thundered cracked as his body crumpled. He fell to the ground like a ton of bricks and blood (_red red blood down the wall dripping red_)began to pulse out into a dark pool (_o god the blood_) on the ground beside him and mix with the heavy rainwater. The drainpipe came down again. The third time it made contact, there was a small yet audible _crack!_ that must have been his skull (_broken shattered shattered broken bloody red bones god god jesus god_).

Sora stood for just a second over his latest conquest before placing the pipe—still dripping a few thick droplets of (_red drip drip red_) blood—back inside his coat and looked down at the body one last time. "I know you have him. You took him and you hid him away from me." He turned and began walking down the sidewalk, still talking. "But I'll find him. You'll be sorry... Axel wouldn't tell me," he continued to mutter to himself, "and Xion wouldn't tell me, and Demyx wouldn't tell me, or Kairi or my own brother Ventus…"

But Riku would know. He knew everything. He had gone to college and gotten a master's degree. He sucked with women and was a total workaholic, that's how smart he was; he _had_ to know.

And even if he didn't, Sora still felt optimistic about it. Sora (that was his name, _right?_) kept walking. Despite the red haze (_like blood like broken red blood dripping dripping dripping_) that was beginning to form over his eyes, he kept on walking, undeterred by the weather.

Sora would keep looking until he found him. But he never would. No one he asked had seen Roxas because Roxas had gone away a long, long time ago. But that wouldn't stop Sora from looking for him. It hadn't stopped him after almost a whole year, because he, Sora (? ? ? or was his name really LOVE ? ? ?) would never die. He would keep looking, because LOVE descends on those defenseless (who had said _that?_), and He was (_red red red_) LOVE, after all…

That painting that was all curvy and all (_blood yes blood_) red—the one that Roxas would have simply _adored_—came back to him and simply floated there in his head, in the vacuum within his mind, and as he strolled down Seventh Street, one simple phrase played over and over in his head like a record with a scratch:

_…mes around it comes around it comes around it comes around it comes arou…_

And God did it come around.

-o-o-o-

**3. My favorite story, so far… It was initially about a character that sees the painting in the story (derived from a piece on DeviantArt), goes and meets the artist, and then falls in love. Instead, it morphed into this, which I think is a far superior idea.**


	4. Broken

-o-o-o-

**It Comes Around**

-o-o-o-

_Broken_

-o-o-o-

The spring of 2007, for me, began with heartache. My boyfriend of two years called me up out of the blue and told me that we needed time apart, that he needed time to think about us and our relationship. Moreover, he told me that he might have found his real love. That one hurt.

It was my sophomore year of college, but I didn't think I could continue studying so far from home. The big city was intimidating for me, and I saw a lot of things that changed the way I thought. (I was pretty sheltered as a kid.) I didn't really connect with anyone there, so at the end of the semester I moved back home.

The hardest part was telling my parents. My mother couldn't figure out why I would want to leave such a prestigious university—and such a big scholarship, she always managed to squeeze in—to study at home. "It's your future at stake," she had told me. "Don't go and do something you'll regret just because of some guy, some _stupid_ guy."

My dad, on the other hand, welcomed me back with open arms. He told me that I was making the right decision and that, if I needed, I could stay with them for awhile. But I could picture the smirk on his face. You know the one… all good, multi-billionaire Republicans have it. He always thought of me as a disappointment. In his mind, I was supposed to take over the "family enterprise," not become the most dreaded of things: a _fine arts major_. Secretly, I think he wanted me to fail.

That's the reason I turned down the offer. Instead, I opted to rent an old apartment on the seedier side of town. The lights were always on the blink and I could've sworn that my neighbors were undiagnosed nymphomaniacs, but the rent was cheap enough to make me forget about that. It was tough; but so am I, I like to think, and I managed.

Most of my friends had already moved on to bigger things by the time I returned, but my friend Kairi was still in the neighborhood. She helped me get a job at the bookstore in town, right on Seventh Street: Prospero's New and Antiquated Books. She worked there as well—she had been employed part-time in high school and became part of the full-time staff after graduating—so it made life a bit easier. It was a boring job, but it paid. And let me tell you, college ain't cheap when it's on your dime.

-o-o-o-

I think things in life happen sometimes for no other reason than that they're supposed to. Some call it fate, and others God, but I just see it as life. _C'est la vie_, as the French say, and when are they ever wrong?

I like sunny days, so when it was bright out, I would walk to work. It isn't far (about the same distance as the university, just in the opposite direction), and I liked the exercise. But when it rained, I would take the bus.

I think it was about a month into my job; it was a Tuesday, at any rate. I remember that because I didn't have any classes; I worked all day instead. Days that I only worked were my hardest days because I not only had to ring up every harlequin imaginable, but catch up on all my homework from the previous day as well.

I was flipping through one of my textbooks that evening when it began to rain. By11:30, the showers had developed into a full-blown thunderstorm that stubbornly lingered into the next morning. The power in my building, already iffy to begin with, went out, and my alarm clock (an anachronism from the late seventies) died during the night without much fanfare.

So because of all that I woke up late—_very_ late, I'll admit—and missed the bus. The next one didn't come in the near future, so after I called my boss, I toughed it out and walked. The streets are very empty on rainy days. It's something I had never really thought about—I don't think any of us do. It seemed darker. It must have been the clouds, but at the time, I felt like there was some sinister secret that was creeping up behind me.

That's when I saw him first. Sitting there, cross-legged in the rain, his blond hair drooping into his face. He couldn't have been a day over twenty, if that. His hands were buried in the pockets of his raincoat with his hood hanging down, probably collecting rainwater, just sitting on a bench. He looked so small. It was so surreal… like a scene in some Hollywood movie.

I didn't give him a second thought though, just continued on my way to work. When I think about it today, I feel like such a cavalier, terrible person. I dragged through the day fine, but the idea of asking him if he needed a ride or something, _anything_, continued to claw at the back of my mind. As I ended my shift, I decided that if he was still there, I would offer him a lift. He wasn't.

-o-o-o-

The next day, I told Kairi about that boy. She told me that he was a bit of a legend in town. I was surprised. I had never heard about him, though I by no means thought myself an expert of our fair city. I asked her about him, and she told me what she knew: that he was the governor's idiot son, practically a ghost.

People said that if you saw him, good things were bound to happen to you. It was kinda sick, I thought, using someone like, well… _that_ as a joke. She told me this last part with a sad smile (I guess she felt the same way) before she went back to stacking paperback mysteries up on the shelf. I wanted to know more, but she had nothing else to say.

My curiosity had been piqued.

-o-o-o-

Over the next five weeks, I had seen him nowhere, despite my tedious search. Kairi told me that I probably wouldn't see him again; it was rare to see him in town because his parents always kept a caring eye on him. But I saw him again.

Wednesdays were my busiest school days. I had to power through an hour of art history, two hours of life drawing, an hour of calculus, and an hour of graphic com. II. It rained all during that time. I think it must be something about the rain that he likes.

This time he was in an alleyway between buildings, cross-legged again, but this time leaning his back up against a wall, staring down at his reflection in a puddle. The putrid smell of wet garbage wafted through the air and I wanted to leave, but I didn't. I stood there, just watching him. It was oddly comforting, just watching him and listening to the idle drips of the leftover storm, and it seemed like hours before I finally made up mind to say something to him.

"Hi," I said softly. He flinched and looked up at me, staring, his blue eyes cold and still. He had a cut on his cheek. I don't know why, but it just stood out to me.

Time froze, and I could feel myself being scrutinized by something almost inhuman. He just stared at me, and I felt as him he was staring directly into my soul. All of the sudden, I felt so incredibly _stupid_ for trying to talk to him, as if he were a god and I, a mere mortal, had been caught trying to climb Mount Olympus.

I licked my lips, and I after another second of his gaze, I left. I really regret it now, but I think, at the time, it was all I could do.

-o-o-o-

It was a rainy Monday I think, when I saw him next.

I was walking down the sidewalk going home when I spotted his blond hair. He was sitting in Belvedere Park alone on a bench, gazing up at the dark clouds rumbling past in the sky. I felt a flutter in my chest, but I didn't know what it meant exactly.

I walked over to the bench and sat down. He looked up at me. He recognized me, I think, even though he just turned away as if I wasn't there. Maybe because of that I knew. For a few minutes, I said nothing. Birds were chirping and a squirrel was running about in the branches of a tree high above us. Something inside me told me to break the silence, so I did.

"What's your name?" I asked him. He didn't answer; he just looked at me. I couldn't help but notice how red his lips were. "Oh," I murmured, after a minute. I could feel the embarrassment beginning to crest over my body again. I stood up to leave, but I felt a light tug on the sleeve of my jacket and I let myself fall back down onto the bench.

He looked over at me once more before he leant to pick up a stray branch in his fingers. With the twig in his hand, he wrote _ S_ slowly in the mud. I looked over at him and smiled gratefully. "It's nice to meet you, Roxas," I said quietly. He just stared out past me, into the distance.

-o-o-o-

That Monday, I told him about myself to see if he would ever talk back to me, told him about the grimy apartment I lived in, and where I worked, and about life at school. He didn't say anything—I thought he might have social issues—but after that day, I started seeing Roxas a little more often. It was always a quiet encounter too; he never talked. He seemed like such a fragile creature. He could have been a dream, or an angel.

When he did pop up, it was usually near the school. Not particularly close, but close enough. I guess he lived somewhere around there. I talked to him when I did see him, usually something small… sometimes just a 'hello.' I don't know why I did it, but I did. And after awhile, I started to sit and really talk to him, and he really seemed to listen. It might have just been me, but meeting with him, _talking_ to him… I don't know.

-o-o-o-

Once, we—well, _I_—was talking about literature (Arthurian romances, I believe) when my cell phone went off and Mozart filled the air between us. That was the first time I'd ever seen him smile, and boy… was it something.

The next time I saw him (about a week afterward, I think), he suddenly stood up and started walking. He turned after several steps, slowed to a stop, and looked at me as a confused puppy would its master. I understood, subconsciously, what he wanted and followed him. He led me to the city's Presbyterian Church.

The church almost always had a volunteer staff on hand, even if it was just a skeleton crew, so it was open all during the day. He led me into the sanctuary and sat down at one of the back pews. I looked at him quizzically, but sat down beside him. The few people that we met on the way in didn't stop us or try to talk to us. They knew something that I didn't. You could read it in their faces.

-o-o-o-

Suddenly, he disappeared. My life felt a little bit emptier, and I finally narrowed it down to him (or rather, the lack of him) as the source of this loneliness about a two weeks later. He wasn't on the way to or from school anymore, or on the benches or in the rain. It was very strange.

My parents invited me to dinner once during this "missing" period. I didn't have anything else to do, so I told them I would. I walked to their house, despite my mother's pleas to take a cab. The eternal pessimist that she is swears that I'll be mugged or even killed one day. It obviously hasn't happened yet.

On the way to their house was the old church that Roxas had taken me to once. As I passed by, my ears picked up the sound of music. Not loud pop music with a shake-your-colon bass line, but something very gentle. Faint, but audible nonetheless. I opened the door.

Roxas sat at the piano playing. I do not know the piece, but it was soft and so… expressive. He stopped and looked over at me. I think I surprised him, and maybe I wasn't supposed to hear that because he wouldn't play again, no matter how much I pressed him to. After about five minutes of prodding, I left.

Dinner was as boring as I thought it'd be.

-o-o-o-

I made the connection between Roxas and the church about a week later, and started visiting him there. He was always there Thursday evenings. How or why, I don't know.

On one of those visits, I asked Roxas why he never talked. I didn't have much to say that day and the comfortable silence that sometimes lapsed between us seemed emptier; it was just us in the sound of silence. He stood up and left. He didn't storm away and he didn't have a scowl on his face—he never did—but I didn't see him for a month after that. It scared me a little.

I came back one day and he was there, sitting up at the piano. He acted as if nothing had happened (in fact, he might have even given me one of his introverted smiles), but I was upset with him just the same.

Why was I? Did I have the right to feel hurt like that? Could I even call him a friend? I didn't really know anything about him, after all… To this day, I don't know the answers to any of those questions. But nonetheless, I kept coming back.

-o-o-o-

After you find yourself out of a relationship and that initial sadness dulls, you get really bored and lonely. Kinda like during summer vacation, whenever all your friends are off on cool vacations and you're left at home watching reruns of _Spongebob Squarepants_ on the television. You just start to feel out of the loop.

So imagine my surprise at being asked about by a fellow art student, an invitation which I (over)eagerly accepted.

I told Roxas the news; personally, I was ecstatic but he didn't react the way I had expected. He just stared at me, like the first time we had met. Not a smile, not even a gesture of acknowledgment. He just stared at me, and then turned to the piano. Prokofiev's Piano Sonata No. 7, I think, was what he hammered out before he left. As for me and that other art student? It didn't work out.

The months passed and the snow fell. I continued talking to him about whatever seemed important or interesting, and he began to play more. He knew Chopin, Beethoven, even some Mussorgsky, but I think Mozart was his favorite.

In February, I think, I got a real scare. I had sat down at the piano bench—over the weeks it had become our regular spot—and started talking to him, about plants and nature, I think. It took me a minute to realize that he wasn't noodling about on the keys like he usually did. I looked over, and he looked up from his lap and over at me. He had a huge black eye, swollen, and I could have sworn that I could actually see it throbbing.

I didn't know what to say after that, so instead of saying anything, I said nothing. As terrible as it sounds now, I couldn't get a single word out. Not even a grunt, or a sigh. My brain totally shut down.

He played the most beautifully I had ever heard him play that day.

-o-o-o-

He said something to me once.

I was discussing my floundering love life. Actually, I don't even think I could call it that at that point; it had practically faded from existence. _Poof!_ Disappeared. My talk had started with my musings over love's existence before it devolved into me whining. In retrospect, not my finest hour…

"What is the point of love?" I had asked. "And is there even enough to come around to everyone, or do some of us get left in the dust?"

Roxas didn't say anything, but continued to play a little melody on the keys.

"I mean," I continued. "I'm sure you'll find someone. You'll steal someone's heart the way you play that thing," I gestured at the piano. "you're a genius. But what about me? Could someone ever really love me? I mean, I want to be someone's somebody, but whose?"

That's when he said it. At least, I _thought _he said it. It was simple, and small. _"Mine."_

When I looked over at the blond, his face was a blank slate. Absolutely inscrutable. He just sat there, playing a tune that I sounded like some kind of Gaelic folksong. I think it was that moment in time when I realized that, even if the feeling wasn't really reciprocated at all, I was in love with him.

-o-o-o-

Again I saw him bruised, this time on his cheek, and he had a gash just above his left eyebrow. He just stood there. He didn't try to sit or anything. He just stood there by the piano, staring at his shoes. I felt so bad—he looked so utterly _broken_. I tried to hug him, as unmanly as it may sound, to give him some comfort, but he fought me off. He took a step or two back before he ran out of the sanctuary. I didn't know what to do.

The next time I saw him, he acted as if nothing happened, and I did the exact same thing. I mean, what else is a guy supposed to do? It was painful, but he smiled up at me from his piano (for I no longer considered it to be the church's), and I felt a little better. At least, that's what I thought that warmth in my belly meant.

Then, one day, things just happened.

We were in the church. He was playing a piece I faintly knew to be Liszt, and then he suddenly stopped. He turned and looked at me. Those eyes… I swear he must have gazed at my very soul, but you would probably laugh at that idea. For the longest time he just stared. Stared.

"Roxas?" I asked him nervously. He was beginning to scare me. Well, not scare me. He had always had a gentleness about him. But it made me _uneasy_. It was like the eerie calm before a storm.

He began playing again, this time a completely different piece, one I have not heard before or since. It was beautiful, and I told him so. He stopped and turned away. And then he mumbled something, whispered something to no one. I didn't understand at first, but then it sunk in, the words he had spoken.

_"He hit me."_

It wasn't much, and it was out of the blue. But he broke down into tears. He had a voice and needed to be heard, and it turned out that I was the only one who would listen. He had grown to trust me, and I had grown to adore him. I wrapped my arms around him and this time he didn't fight me; he just cried. So much passed between us that day.

-o-o-o-

Over the next few weeks, I got most of the story out. He still wouldn't say anything else. It was me asking a yes-or-no question and him nodding or shaking his head in response when he wanted to answer. Usually he didn't. It took a long time and a lot of guesswork. I won't go into details—it really wasn't any of _my_ business, so it's definitely not yours… But I will say that a certain governor didn't receive my vote that election year.

-o-o-o-

Roxas started talking. When he finally opened his mouth, and said his first real sentences, free of hurt, I felt this flurry of emotions. It was a tidal wave that could have knocked me off my feet. Soon we were having real conversations. Stilted, mostly one-sided conversations, true, but real nonetheless. And let me tell you something: he's actually a pretty funny guy.

But still, something didn't seem right between us. I don't know what it was, and when I think back at that time, I still don't really know. Maybe it's better now. Maybe it's not. I think that it was partially my guilt. He trusted me, and I loved him selfishly.

It has been said that he who loves the more is made to suffer, or something to that affect, and that month I found it wholly and irrevocably true. Eventually, with him at the piano and me at his side, I took the plunge.

I have never been so scared in my entire life.

-o-o-o-

So much has happened since that spring, so much… It seems so far away now. Time really does fly, and, like I said earlier, I think things happen sometimes because they're supposed to.They just _are_. And love? It comes around. It always does and it always will, because there's more than enough in our world.

I'm sorry. I'd love to stay and talk some more, but I have to go; Roxas is calling for me. Good-bye.

-o-o-o-

**4. I was going through my old stuff—I do that from time to time—and rediscovered this story (which was previously posted on FF with the title ****_Seven Years Silent_****). I liked it, but it was pretty horrid. I did a lot of editing and added about four pages; and the finished project turned out nicely, I think. It may not be the best, but it's good enough. This wasn't originally part of the cycle, but I felt the piece I was writing at the time worked better as a standalone, so I subbed it with this one. I rather like it here.**


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